


House of Shadows

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Distrust, Emotional Manipulation, Fluff and Angst, House Elves, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, M/M, Malfoy Manor, Regret, Repressed Memories, Sentimental, Sick Character, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-31 19:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21247925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A house elf released from his bonds nevertheless struggles to break his ties to the ancient house which he had served for centuries - compelled to revisit the abode of his cruel master for what he imagines may be the last time.
Relationships: Dobby/Lucius Malfoy
Kudos: 6





	House of Shadows

He dug his fingers into the blankets, his jaw clenched in anger as the memory of humiliation danced circles about his restless conscience. Lucius's brow was hot with fever, his skin a sickly hue. He reached for the glass at his bedside, finding it empty. Clearly did Lucius Malfoy see the venerable figure of the reinstated headmaster, uttering thinly veiled threats of the dire consequences which loomed in his future, adding weight to the apprehensions which had already been haunting him ever since Voldemort had summoned him to play his part in bringing about the Dark Lord's return, reviving the foreboding which surrounded the fateful allegiance.

There too, within his mind's eye, was the insolent face of young Potter, fearless and precocious, a veritable foil to his own lack of restraint at the time of their last encounter. In the very act of raising his wand, he was aware of the brazen madness of casting such a spell upon a young wizard, in the shadow of the headmaster's office at Hogwarts no less. Lucius could hardly account for what had driven him to do it. As if, something inside of him was set upon his own destruction, that nothing save for the very thing which he struggled to avert would settle the strain under which he lived since the Dark Lord had appeared to him, while other witches and wizards were still basking in the glow of celebrating an era of peace, credulously they believed such a thing would endure for decades to come.

Laying upon the bed, still dressed in his cloak and shoes, Lucius turned to gaze out the window, his half-lidded gray eyes caught for an instant upon the flicker of moonlight upon the silver handle of the wand cane which had rolled onto the floor. The translucent curtains billowed with the night air, half obscuring the night sky from view. Feeling a nauseous stiffness in his limbs, Lucius raised himself from the pillow and approached the window pane with unsteady steps, leaning against it while he looked out at the expanse of lawn below and the silhouette of ancient woodland in the distance, where the mist would often gather in the mornings – creating a shroud about Malfoy Manor.

Somehow this sight, too, greeted him with its threats – as if it were meditating and gathering resolve to slip away from the grasp of an unworthy master. The ancestral home, like the subdued creatures which had walked its halls for generations were shedding their subservience and constraint, leaving behind ghosts of themselves in the desperate mind of the man who remained to stalk about the long dark halls, an old wolf nursing his wounds.

At times Lucius thought he still heard the sweeping of robes, the footsteps of Narcissa and his son, yet that could not be. For nearly a year, his wife had gone away to live apart, taking young Malfoy with her. It was with excuses and charmed visions inspired by faded photographs that he was able to greet guests who asked after her, as it was both his desire and hers that their parting be kept from the public eye, for as long as it may be contrived. The mother's son and the father's reputation had a role in this decision, yet mainly, it was the desire to keep the inquisitive at bay, for the truth behind their parting was not one to which many may lend a sympathetic ear.

But perhaps such was not the case, Narcissa would learn. Several of the friends who had shunned them, all with due tact and aristocratic bearing, had since welcomed back Lucius's wife, in the semblance of a helpless woman who had been cast upon the fire, powerless against her husband's will, at last fleeing to the side of good and righteousness. It was true, he was able to confess to himself that she had protested in sincerity against the alliance which he had formed, persuaded at last only by the growing pressure of protecting her unborn son and the family, moved by the horrible fate met by those close to her who chose to oppose the Dark Lord.

At the height of Voldemort's power, and that of her husband, she had despaired to think of another path, at the same time felt the shame of her cowardice, wavering often in her heart as to which fate she ought to fear more. It cannot be denied that there was little in the way of domestic bliss in their arranged union, it seemed almost natural to both that the distance between them should grow after their son had been dutifully conceived, and so it was, that each took to their separate chambers, rarely seeing one another, while at the same time endeavouring to maintain civil and diplomatic relations whenever their paths were obliged to cross.

While she saw few signs of contrition on the side of Lucius, the material comforts which surrounded Narcissia taunted her with the knowledge of an ignoble life, dearly bought. Each nursed their own private sorrow in proud solitude, accustomed to the pervading somberness which fell over their mealtimes. Even these half-hearted motions of domesticity soon grew intolerable to them both. Gradually, the distance between was such that the strongest tie which hitherto drew them together threatened to break under the strain – a coldness and aversion penetrating deeper into the sensitive woman's heart. While Lucius contrived to see her upon various matters of necessity, Narcissa continued to prefer spending her days in the gloom of her chamber, growing thin and losing the youthful hue which he recalled during the early days of their supposed courtship.

She struggled in vain, trying to distract herself with novels and the refined pastimes of ladies, her abhorrence of her husband was a perpetual needle within her heart, coupled with the loneliness to which her association condemned her. Although there were families who had forgiven them their true and suspected wrongs, whether in friendship or in self-interest, in her conscience Narcissa could not will herself to accept any possibility of escaping her hermitage until she found courage to separate herself from that which Lucius embodied.

How strange it was, when that day came at last – he made no protest, nor showed any sign of emotion. Even on the day of her departure, he had absented himself from the house, having gone out to walk in the forest in the early hours of the morning. With her belongings packed away and her friends and young Draco at her side, she felt little of longing or remorse as she saw the imposing house recede into the distance from the window of the speeding coach.

It was not the last time when she would see Malfoy Manor, but her conscience would be free from its grasp, and in time she felt something of herself returning to her, day after day, like a layer of ice slowly melting.

While the cool air swept over him, Lucius considered what might be done in the wake of his failures, shutting his eyes tightly – knowing all the while that no natural means could make the year's passing events disappear, and even were he to choose to meddle with the past, he knew not where he would begin to untangle the net which he had woven for himself.

No, not even that very day was his to blot out of existence. In that moment the desperate idea flashed in his mind of erasing his shame from his own fallible memory, for nothing but a spell would suffice for such a purpose, hardly believing that balm of time would be strong enough. Yet how far would he go – how long had he borne what was deplorable and repulsive.

The same obstacles presented themselves in changing the internal as with the external – his wrongs were too great and too many to be torn away at an instant, the diseased morality by which he fought for his survival had become imbued in an unfathomable number of decisions and dependencies, ensnaring him beyond escape.

The servants sensed the shadow which loomed over the Malfoy family. It was not mere aloofness that defined their masters' unapproachably and reticence, each member of the Malfoy family seemed to have withdrawn within themselves, confiding in none but their own conscience lest in some moment of weakness they should reveal something ugly and wretched to one unworthy, or unable, to hear what had so long been left to cumulate.

Soon, only Dobby remained – a sulking snivelling creature, although far from obedient, far from trustworthy. Lucius had long ago observed that the house elf often enough preferred to accept a punishment rather than abstain from an act of disloyalty, perhaps believing that the prior was inevitable and in no wise to be avoided. Even when, by experiment, his usually stern Master feigned ignorance of the servant's disobedience and spared him his dues, the house elf would see it fit to carry out his own retribution through startlingly masochistic means. Lucius suspected that in this way he was able to circumvent something in the nature of house elves which compelled them to serve their Masters, regardless of their ill-suppressed reluctance.

Still, with all of his faults, Dobby was like a prized family heirloom – a thing of uncertain value, but not to be parted with lightly. The house elf was a relic of bygone times, a symbol of the Malfoy line's superiority, a powerful being reduced to a grovelling, almost sickeningly pathetic state.

From the house elf, his thoughts passed again to his wife. Lucius envied Narcissa her frailty – her escape from the proverbial gilded cage, and at the same time he condemned her, his wife's betrayal leaving him to bear the full burden of the sacrifices which he had made, the risks which he had taken, all to safeguard their lives and their fortune – how many proud families he had seen leveled to nothing by a whim of the Dark Lord, daring to stand against him, yet they had survived and would endure.

Endure to see their own ruin, he mused grimly, seeing the outline of his father's portrait hanging upon the wall outside his chamber door. Even in the darkness, he thought he could see every feature of the man's imperiousness, severe dark eyes looking back at him like those of a raven perched upon a wizen tree, twisted and windblown.

There was no assurance to be found therein, nor as he scanned the rest of the row of family portraits which seemed to appraise him as he dragged his feet along the corridor to his study.

Lucius lit a candle and slumped in the armchair by the fireplace, raising a glass of water to his lips and prodding the burning logs, sending sparks through the grate. He imagined another man may at such a time be moved to drown himself with brandy, and indeed the decanter which stood upon the bookshelf tempted him, yet he was afraid to, believing that once he began with such means, he would not soon escape them.

What he wished for most was to regain a clarity of mind which would guide him to his next course of action, acknowledging the act and consequence of his failure, yet not dwelling upon them with useless sentimentality, such was his resolve. Yet it was in this very pit that he had sunken; Lucius could sense that he was doing nothing more valuable than wallowing in feverish self-pity, a clock in the corner of the room chiming the lateness of the hour.

It was still dark outside and he knew that it was best if he sought whatever sleep he could grasp at, yet he could not help but feel the weight of his errors relentlessly pressing down upon his chest, cumulating in the loss of the house elf.

Lucius felt acutely his own incapacity, evidenced by the hollowness which permeated the ancient walls, the venerable building like a tomb housing nothing but a man from whom much of humanity had departed.

Like a vampire he had led his existence, taking mercilessly from the lives of others, presenting himself as one impervious to bouts of empathy or mercy; greed, arrogance, and cowardice had been the pillars upon which he had built, and so, it was but only in unwelcomed secret mediations that it shamed him to gather the fruits which his machinations bore.

In the midnight hours, the house seemed like a place which no longer belonged to him, lying upon the cold bed, he was struck by the completeness of his solitude, feeling like a waif who had crawled through the window of an old abandoned house, finding himself a bed for the night. But where could he run to, once the morning came – oh but surely it was too late for that.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps was heard, the creaking floorboards reverberating with the sound of someone approaching. Malfoy's eyes strained through the darkness, watching the dark chasm of the open doorway in expectation, feeling himself unprepared to face whatever it was that sought to approach him in the dead of night.

The outline of the thin form staggering towards him was a familiar one, its hunched shoulders and fearful palpitating heart the remnants of its years of service.

"Dobby?" Lucicus's voice was barely a whisper as he sat up from the bed.

"Dobby has felt Master call to him," the house elf took a few hesitant steps forward, bringing himself inside the room so he could better see and judge the man's countenance. "Call all night he did," he continued, "and Dobby – feeling Master's pain –"

"I did not call you," Malfoy interrupted him, his cold tone of contempt a familiar one to the house elf.

"Master is not Dobby's Master anymore," the elf's brow furrowing at the other's domineering gaze, taking the place of one which, for a moment, Dobby took to be gladness.

This reply momentarily disconcerted Lucius and he paused to consider before he again addressed the old servant, loath to be reminded that circumstances had changed much in a day. "Indeed, then why is it that you have returned here? Surely it is not fond reminiscences that have brought you into my presence," he said at last, eyeing the elf with a venomous scrutiny.

For a time a heavy silence loomed over them as each of the two figures remained rigidly alert, hoping to obscure the unnerving feelings brought about by one another's company.

"In kindness Dobby came," the house elf replied, his fingers moving about his wrists in nervous motions, his great watery eyes turning away to rest upon the floorboards and the blistered feet which struggled to keep still.

"Kindness?" Lucius scoffed in mock contempt. "And what sort of kindness is it that I am to receive from an iterant house elf, pray tell?"

Dobby said nothing, only his eyes looked up at his old master in a pained and confused expression, as he began to have doubts as to the sagacity of his visit. Indeed, there had been something of the ancient house, of his Master's soul, and that of the men who had ruled over him for centuries past that had moved him to return, if only for a short time, he assured himself. It was like the wail of a widow's ghost, something beyond hope, a fate that could not be changed nor salvaged, yet all the while, a thing helpless and lonely – calling to him from somewhere within itself, unconfessed. All of this Dobby felt, yet could never have hoped to express with words as he stood weakly before Lucius.

"Well?" the man glowered impatiently, his face a mask behind which his tension hid, revealed only by the unperceived shivering of his hands, one of which firmly grasped the edge of the blanket.

"Master wished for Dobby to return, he has no one but Dobby," he murmured, his pale cheeks burning red as he spoke, as did those of Lucius. "He needs Dobby – to...to take care of him."

"Am I so far gone as that?" hissed Malfoy, trying to regain his composure, disconcerted by the house elf's unprecedented familiarity.

"Yes," Dobby raised his head, the certainty which he felt lending confidence to his words. "Master is desperate."

Lucius glared at the house elf, he opened his mouth to speak, to curse him, yet something made him hesitate.

"Bring me some water," he said, looking expectantly at the large-eyed creature that still cowered before him, as if forgetting its freedom and its powers, succumbing to the old habits which had made up its life of drudgery.

"Yes Master," Dobby bowed to him before retreating out of the room with a sulky timorous gate, pausing at the threshold – hesitating - and then continuing onwards to the kitchen, retracing familiar steps in the night.

Without the aid of a candle, the house elf was able to fill a large porcelain jug with water, labouring under its weight as he lumbered up the staircase. Lucius listened to the sound of the elf's feet, the few minutes of the other's absence giving him some time to collect himself.

Wordlessly, Dobby entered the room and placed the water jug on the nightstand, then – seeing the empty glass, filling it with cool water. Lucius picked it up and brought it to his lips, setting it back down again all under the watch of the house elf, who still had a frightened beseeching expression upon its strange features.

"What is it?" Lucius muttered, the elf taking a pace backwards.

"N-nothing Master, nothing," Dobby began to wring his hands again.

"Speak," he commanded.

"Dobby...Dobby does not know why he thought to return. Master is not kind – no, Master has been cruel, yet...yet the house calls to Dobby to return. Where could Dobby go," the being's face began to contort as choking tears began to stream down its dirty cheeks.

"It was kind of Dobby to come back," said Lucius, his unexpected words causing the elf to stagger in his sobs, although his body still shook with the confused emotions that overwhelmed him. He struggled to silence himself.

Faced with the near incomprehensibleness of his freedom, Dobby felt himself grasping at opposite doors, each dim and unwelcoming.

"You are filthy, I would have thought that you would take better care of yourself now that you are your own master," the wizard remarked, leaning closer, his eyes focusing upon the house elf in a way that made him certain that he was about to cast a spell upon him, at which Dobby winced and closed his eyes in anticipation of familiar agonies. Yet they did not come.

Instead, he heard the water swoosh about the jug and then rise out of it in a stream that whirled about Dobby's limbs, lifting his soiled garment and exposing his emaciated chest. He slumped on the floor, smiling unconsciously as he enjoyed the pleasant magic which cleaned him of so many years of toil. After a time, his old master asked Dobby to get up and carry out the dirty water, with which the elf complied, hurriedly clambering back up onto his feet and out of the chamber. The hall was cold, somehow colder than the room despite its open window, and Dobby became aware of a discomfort at his own nakedness. He thought for a moment if he might ask for or take a fragment of cloth, but he did not dare.

As he descended the staircase to the kitchen garden, throwing out the bathwater, he had brought with him a bowl which he hoped to fill with berries. Only when he reached the vines, he found that they were in a state of decay, the only things thriving there were the weeds that had grown rampant. Dobby was sorry to see the plants which he had once tended fall into neglect, touching them gently with his fingers, as if to comfort the withered leaves and branches. He was about to use his magic upon them, when he spotted the figure of his old master standing at the window. Dobby thought that he had been watching him, but that seemed not to be the case, for he was turned towards the forest with a troubled expression upon his face. The figure then returned to the bedchamber and Dobby thought it best to return likewise, replacing the empty bowl in its spot within the kitchen cupboard.

He crept along the cold stone floor and then up to the third floor where the wizard waited for him. Again there was an uncomfortable tension which filled the room upon the house elf's return, as both of them struggled within themselves as to find their rightful role. Dobby waited at the threshold of the room, until Lucius closed his eyes, the fever taking its toll upon him.

"Come here Dobby," the wizard beckoned, sitting back against the pillows leaning against the headboard of the bed and contriving a softness in the tone of his voice.

The house elf hesitated at the unexpected summons, yet obeyed, inching closer, the old floorboards announcing his approach.

"Yes Master?" he said in nearly a whimper, expecting an order, for the habits of hundreds of years were not to be renounced in the passing of a day.

As he looked closely, he saw something unusual in the dark wizard's expression, in his half closed eyes, which had not been there before. Then he realized that the other was crying, the tears rolling silently along his wan face.

"Do not be afraid, I shall not hurt you," Lucius spoke encouraging words, which stood in contrast to the sternness which marked his lips as his expression suddenly changed, realizing that even in the darkness of the room the house elf had seen the signs of his disarrayed spirit.

There was little of the professed welcome when Dobby considered his old master, yet something nevertheless compelled him to walk forth to approach him. As he stood at the foot of the bed, with a yelp he was pulled up by the wrist atop of the blanket. Dobby quickly gathered his lanky limbs, his knees pressed to his chest as his arms wrapped around them in an effort to take up as little room as possible.

"Master was crying," Dobby blurted out in a tone of surprise, full of feigned naivety. In his heart the house elf was loathe to confess even to himself that it pleased him to see his oppressor in a state of vulnerability, in mind, body, and soul. Dobby was intrigued by what it meant, foremost, he felt a comfort and safety, to be in familiar surroundings in a position of power, yet at the same time, being able to make good thereby, his nature being forever one moved by motives of altruism in degrees rare among wizards.

Lucius scowled at the house elf's remark, knowing not how to answer him without compromising himself, for it was clear that he could not make a denial. Dobby, observing the wizard's position, regretted his words and – hesitantly, fearfully – reached out to stroke Lucius's hand. For a surprised instant, Lucius's disapproval seemed to melt into another kind of discomfort, so extraordinary it was for the two of them. Yet he did not draw his hand away.

Dobby continued stroking his hand, his eyes looking up at Lucius with a mournful benevolence. He leant back again and closed his eyes, opening them only when he felt Dobby stop his soothing gesture.

"Dobby can stay with Master, if Master wishes," the house elf's questioning look was intermingled with a naive pitying affection, and something else besides, a longing after kindness from a source which held sway for him above all others.

Lucius said nothing, sighing deeply, wondering at the strange reunion which had taken place between himself and Dobby, and how best to proceed.

"Not as a slave, not as vermin," Dobby went on, these words seemed to be addressed more to himself than to the wizard, as the house elf's thoughts passed over the coldness which permeated his relations with the Malfoy family, teetering between cruelty and neglect. He recalled with sorrow the many nights when he lay curled up in a ball, dreading the coming morning and wishing that the winter night might take his shivering limbs to somewhere far from the stone walls of Malfoy Manor – anywhere that the wizarding family and its heirs may not find him. How different that Lucius seemed to the one which lay upon the bed like an invalid, stroking the elf's bald scalp as if he were a dear lapdog.

Dobby closed his eyes in pleasure at the pressure of the man's slender hand.

"No, not as a slave," Lucius repeated, his lips curled. How often had Dobby associated that smile with haughty vindictiveness, such that even with its supposed compassion it still made the house elf shudder.

He felt fingers touching his large lopsided ears, at which he buried his face in the folds of the blankets close to Lucius's ribs. The elf's thin frame began to shake in sobs again, stifled at first and then growing uncontrollable. The tears and his runny nose dampened the blanket, he felt ashamed yet could not force himself to relent, the build up of so many heavy painful years flowing out of him overwhelming the small elf. Lucius said nothing, only his hand moved over Dobby's back in soothing motions.

"Master!" Dobby's shaky voice called out through his tears. He was filled with longing, longing to belong to the wizard, to his home, imagining in that instant a Lucius Malfoy such as the one to whom he clung desperately in that moment, afraid lest he should vanish like an apparition. The depth of his guilt at having renounced his master surfaced plainly to Dobby, moreover, his fear of being cast into the world on his own, a state reserved for only the most reprobate and deranged of house elves. These emotions fought against memories of the pain and suffering he had endured, until, in the confusion, he sought to let go of either pole between which his life seemed to totter, wishing to feel only the present moment – the rare glimpse of happiness – to the utmost.

Suddenly, he felt Lucius raise him off the bed with both arms, his body like a rag doll, and for a moment he was afraid, but then Dobby saw him lift the edge of the blanket and cover him with it.

"You may sleep here tonight," said Lucius, a note of uncertainty in his voice. Nevertheless, he lowered his head upon the pillow beside Dobby, feeling sickly and delirious. At the same time, there something of the house elf's happiness Lucius was able to salvage for himself, still undecided as to what moved him to the strange gesture of affection which he had denied the creature since his childhood.

"Thank you Master," whispered Dobby, feeling the other's warmth against his bare skin, flooding him with comfort.

Following through with the subconscious motives which had moved him thus far, Lucius drew the house elf nearer, cradling the angular hunched body against his chest like a baby or a child's toy. Dobby felt tears welling up within him once more from eyes which he had barely been able to dry, in stifled shaking he wept quietly against the wizard's robes, his long large hands clutching gently at the folds of dark fabric, then, more boldly, at Lucius's long dishevelled hair, smoothing it from his shoulders and his feverish brow. Then, he placed his hand over Lucius's forehead, his palm becoming like a cold compress by way of a simple charm.

"Thank you Dobby," the wizard breathed, turning to look at his old servant in a way that he had not seen him before. More than his sickness, it pained him to imagine the house elf's life as it must have been to Dobby himself, each bruise and scar upon its ugly skin a mark of his ill treatment. All of the frustration, stress, anger and fear under which the Malfoys labored had likely in some form flown down to the contorted creature that had endured all manner of privation for countless centuries. At first he could not comprehend how it was that after such a life, the house elf could still gaze at him with – with love.

"Master is kind," Dobby burst out, "for the first time Master has spoken words of gratitude, treated Dobby as one who is not entirely worthless, had allowed him such closeness as he never thought possible - save for in dreams, in fantasy. Oh Dobby fears he will awaken, no – no – Dobby clings to Master, feels that he is there, sight and scent and touch assure Dobby –"

"No, Master is not kind," spoke Lucius, unable to bear the house elf's profusion of praises in which he could find no pleasure, instead they punished him with how low the being had been brought so as to be thrown into exultations at – at whatever it was that he had offered it in his own delirious state.

The wizard's stern tone silenced Dobby, who at first feared that Lucius might strike him, that it was all a ruse, a trick, a test – which would sorely end in the most painful punishment imaginable, to rival the height of his fleeting happiness. Only no such transformation came over his acknowledged master, who still held him, an uncertain, worried expression upon his face.

"I have wronged you, more than you may ever know, Dobby," Lucius resumed. "As have my fathers before me."

"Dobby does know, more than anyone else, what it is to be Dobby" a quivering voice spoke into the blanket, feeling guilty for his words, yet at the same time longing to speak them, Dobby looked up at his master in whom he could sense a reluctance as he prepared the words his conscience obliged him to say, as his spirit lapsed into something like remorse. Shame was there too, and pity, and something else which he had yet to admit to himself.

"Yes, you are right, even in my contrition I fail to properly acknowledge what you have suffered."

Dobby had no words for what swelled in his heart, cloying as his words would seem to his master if he were to attempt to speak them. Yet he did not go so far as to try, instead he pressed his wet cheek to Lucius's hand, and then his lips, at which the wizard withdrew it, stopping himself in time as his impulse was to discreetly wipe the tears on his hand upon the covers. He asked himself then whether such an impulse of revulsion was what he truly felt, or if it was something that he had been practiced since his birth. Although the house elf's appearance was not naturally an endearing one, the longer he looked upon it, the more he could imagine himself believing as much – some its features, at first grotesque, may be dear to one who saw their expressiveness, its benign naivety, its helplessness. It seemed as easy to be cruel as to be kind to it, how receptive it was to both, so he had learned. Lucius could tell that Dobby was wondering what his thoughts dwelled upon, waiting for him to speak in anxiety, still afraid that things were not what they seemed.

Lucius shut his eyes, as if to signal that he would say no more, and that he wished to rest, albeit a few hours remained until sunrise. Dobby watched him – lovingly, admiringly, and then he too closed his eyes, shuffling close to the wizard, cautiously extending his hand to rest upon Lucius's cheek. He expected gray eyes to cast a disapproving stare upon him, but the other's lashes remained perfectly still save for a steady breathing of feigned sleep.

...

Upon the following morning, Dobby was reluctant to stir from the bed, finding that his master still lay beside him, his back turned away from him, yet still close by. Picking up his old garment from the floor, the house elf was about to put it over his shoulders, when he hesitated, wondering if it would be the right thing to do – to wear what was a reminder of his life of servitude. Only he had nothing else, until, looking about him, his eyes fell on the pillowcase upon which he had slept the prior night. He stared at it for a long time before at last resolving to take it off the pillow and tear holes for his arms and head. The pillowcase was soft and clean, save for the tears of joy which he had shed upon it, and as such, it pleased him to feel it against his bare skin.

Startled awake by the sound of the tearing fabric and the house elf moving about, Lucius turned to look at what was happening, the memory of the night before flashing dimly as the elf beamed at him with hopefulness and gratitude.

"Dobby will bring Master some tea," the house elf assured him. "Master will feel better soon."

Before Lucius could reply, Dobby hurried down the steps, clambering about the kitchen and bringing it to order as he set about preparing breakfast and a hot pot of tea. Meanwhile, Lucius climbed out of bed and tried to pull himself together as he beheld his own dishevelled appearance and the heavily wrinkled garments which he had worn the day before during his meeting with Dumbledore. He still felt unwell and was glad that he had no business to attend to that day, hardly believing that he could manage it in his state. Moreover, it seemed to him that he was at a critical turning point with regards to his relations with Dobby and that his presence was required at home, if he was to grasp the unexpected opportunity which was presented to him to reclaim the servant which he so nearly lost - thanks to the illustrious Harry Potter.

As he was undressing, Dobby returned with a porcelain teapot laden with tea and scones, announcing that he would prepare a bath for Master. Lucius sat down upon the edge of the bed in his bathrobe and drank the soothing tea. Unlike himself, he smiled with kindness at Dobby as he allowed the house elf to minister to his comfort, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt that he was taking advantage of the other's services, as if in little time all would return to normal. He was uncertain as to what kind of hold he had upon Dobby, since he had been deceived into granting the house elf his freedom. Would the elf's own re-acknowledgement of the house of Malfoy suffice to bind him to service, even if the creature's will should change in the future – this he did not know.

"The bath is ready Master," Dobby re-entered the room, carrying towels in his gangly arms.

"Thank you Dobby," Lucius smiled back, this time less sincerely, for he was interrupted between thoughts he would be ashamed to admit to the other, who seemed to be enraptured with the idea that domestic cordiality and perhaps something more would characterize their newfound bond. Lucius remained undecided as to how he would proceed, uncertain as to whether he could trust the personal goodwill of another being as a means of keeping him within his power. Behind this pragmatism, there remained a sense of guilt which he felt was too deep to be so easily absolved, even if Dobby acted thus wise. He wondered if the elf, too, was acting in such a way to pave the way to what he hoped may come, rather than because he had forgiven and forgotten.

"Is Master well?" Dobby asked, following him to the bathroom with the towels.

"Yes – well," Lucius assured him, removing his robe and sinking into the hot water, at once enjoying its relaxing effect upon his nerves and his limbs.

"Shall Dobby wash your hair Master?" asked the house elf, sitting down at the foot of the bathtub.

"No, that's fine Dobby," said Lucius, feeling a certain awkwardness as the creature beamed at him with pleasure, wavering ever so slightly at the wizard's reply. "Well – I suppose you could, if you wish," he acquiesced to the peculiar request, for even in the days of his servitude, Dobby was rarely called upon in this way save for when Malfoy was a young boy.

The house elf set about lathering and massaging, humming an unfamiliar tune as his long fingers worked through the wizard's long hair until it was rather a tangle. When at last satisfied with his efforts, the house elf poured water over Lucius, at times causing him to cough at the unexpected downpour.

While he submitted to this treatment, Lucius could not help but feel a light-heartedness, pleased by the childish innocence of the house elf, as if he could perhaps allow himself to let down his guard and forget the things which kept him from sleep.

They ate breakfast in the parlour, foregoing the somber dining room with its long table and its double row of empty chairs upon which Lucius could recall dining with far more enemies and sycophants than friends. Although the eggs, toast and sausages were somewhat burnt, due in part to the elf's prolonged assistance with untangling Lucius's hair, it was indeed one of the happiest meals the two of them had ever had for many years. Neither said a word, only it was felt that in one another's presence, in the empty house, the companionship which they would offer one another would be enough – satisfying a longing which had receded into the recesses of hope.

From that day forth, Dobby remained at Malfoy Manor, none knowing of his presence save for the master himself. They would walk in the woods together and Dobby felt satisfaction at the trust the wizard placed in him as he related his cares and his schemes to him, although he could dissuade him from neither, he could see that it helped his master to have someone to talk to, who would stand by him unwaveringly, cherishing their friendship. The fine food, comfortable bed, and clean clothing gave him a sense of dignity which he had always yearned for, especially by the goodwill of the master of the house which he had served since his birth, grateful to Harry Potter for the change which he had brought about in the relations between himself and Lucius Malfoy – one of the things he still dared not mention to Master.


End file.
